Jun 18, 2009
So, it’s official. I’m on vacation. I spent last weekend revamping my writing room instead of my writing. I’d been using a tiny folding desk left over from a daughter’s college dorm room, so I brought up our Thanksgiving-extra-seating folding table, which gives me another foot or so to make a mess on. The room is really too small for any sort of real desk. I’ve got masses of research books and files shoved under the table now. If I get ambitious, I might get some Velcro and fabric and make a skirt. Don’t hold your breath. I took four huge black trash bags of keeper books upstairs to the spare bedroom, and discovered all sorts of things. Apparently I own two books entitled Jane Austen, Feminism and Fiction and Presenting Miss Jane Austen. I’ll let you know how they are (again, don’t hold your breath).
But now that my desk is newly arranged, Sadie noticed my Jane Austen Action Figure and tried to remove the quill from her cold, dead hand. Sadie’s middle name is Jane, so she seemed entranced with the little plastic Jane. She kept putting Miss Austen to sleep on a pillow whispering “shh” and then yanking her up, giggling maniacally. No naps for Jane or Sadie Jane, or for me either. I’ve been pretty tired—it’s been a looong school year—and even Sadie noticed when the air went out of my balloon Sunday afternoon. She put her arms around me and asked, “Matter?” Empathy, and she’s not even two. I have great hopes for her.
So I’m back to writing a book which features a two year old boy on my sparkly new desk. Write what you know, right? How do you feel about kids in romances? What do you know about Jane Austen? How clean is your desk?
For a double-dose of me today, check out my writing tips post on Vauxhall Vixens, totally pirated from another site. Good stuff.
Jun 13, 2009
I guess I need to have a professional portrait done pretty soon. I’ve gotten very used to the image that accompanies my Blogger comments, taken almost two years ago on my birthday. It’s cropped from the larger shot, where I’m surrounded by the other Robinson girls in my life. I haven’t had a ‘real’ picture taken since I sold real estate—no more shoulder pads and power suits and big hair, thank you very much. So I’m contemplating what to wear, whether I should get my hair and make-up done by people who know what they’re doing, if I should smile showing teeth or not, LOL. Inside or outdoors? Turtleneck or V-neck? Vaseline on the lens or Photoshop?
Decisions, decisions. Help me make them! What should I shop for? How should I smile? Natural or spackled? Do you pay any attention to author photographs? Whose picture stands out for you? Do you photograph well?
Above is Edward Steichen’s famous portrait of Gloria Swanson. Most of us, however, remember her like this from
Sunset Boulevard. Yikes
.
Jun 8, 2009
June 16. That’s when I kiss all those library books and teenagers good-bye for the summer. I know just how lucky I am to have two months off, even if I don’t get paid. I’ve got the usual big plans—to finish at least one of the two books I’ve started. If I don’t get lured out into the sunshine too often, it will happen. I know I could sit in my Adirondack chair with my laptop, but I seem to be tied to my little folding desk in my little writing room (which is a mess again, so another big plan will be to clean it up). I’m also judging a writing contest, which should be interesting. We’ll go away for a week in August, and I’ve got a slew of doctor and dentist appointments and a standing weekly date with Sadie. Before I know it, it will be time to go back to school. Ugh.
What are your summer plans? What’s growing in your garden? (We’re on our third batch of tomatoes and peppers because of freezes…our heat still comes on at night!) Can you write anywhere, or do you stick to one place?
Jun 3, 2009
Here I am, just starting out. I should be networking madly, adding to my Facebook and MySpace friends, bloghopping and commenting and supporting other new authors, participating weekly in Snippet Saturday, where author excerpts on shared topics are posted. (the promo brainchild of
Lauren Dane of the
Bradford Bunch. Yay, Lauren!) Instead of promoting the goodness and wonder that is me, I find myself crafting a proposal, writing, waiting nervously to hear how the revision went, wondering how the Courtesan Court trilogy is fairing, wanting to completely unplug and go underground. Not even wanting to
blog, for heaven’s sake! Maybe I’ll rally as time goes by…or when I know the name of the book, LOL. Right now I’m hanging back, trying to balance everything.
For various reasons, D.C. is out this year, though Nashville looks good. But promotion is a daunting thing. I’ve been reading up, and know that I need to go beyond bookmarks. I’ve enjoyed watching
Tessa Dare take to the blogwaves and
Beverly Kendall craft
The Season. My new website will be a start, but I’m open to any suggestions on how to “get out there!” I’m probably going to publish the Berkley books under a brand new name, Maggie Rowan. Still working out the details…so not only do I not know the name of my book, I don’t know mine, either, LOL.
What’s your favorite feature of a writing career? What do you fear? What’s your pen name?
May 30, 2009
This week we’re all about the kissing, the first kiss, that is. I’m working on a proposal for a hot Regency historical and posting the actual second kiss between my h/h, Sebastian and Frederica. They have a history together, but Sebastian, the dog, does not remember it. Freddie is interested obtaining some experience and real estate from Sebastian, and is determined to do Any Wicked Thing to get it. Real estate is always an excellent investment, and Freddie is a practical girl, except when it comes to Sebastian. Enjoy, and don’t forget to visit the other authors below to taste their first kisses!
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She’d been a naïve child the last time she’d seen him naked, and had been hopelessly impressed with every decadent scrap of him then. If the planes and angles of his face caused her heart to stir now, his body had more than lived up to its early promise. He was broad and well-muscled, without an ounce of fat. He looked as though he could defend her from ghosts or dragons or anything inconvenient. Except for himself.
Oh, she was naïve now. And for what? The uncertain roof over her head? But it was too late. She took another step forward. And then another.
He pressed his thumbs to her cheeks, his fingers resting lightly on her temples. His pupils were huge, black as his soul—if he still had one—ringed in dark, fathomless green. She longed to touch the bump on the bridge of his nose, the only imperfection she could detect in his shadowed face. He was whispering something scandalous, but she couldn’t listen for watching his lips move. Then he smiled and slanted them over hers, the soft strength of them warm and insistent. Her mouth opened in protest and his tongue traced the seam of her top lip slowly, as if he were measuring by touch, calculating the inches of pink. He did the same to her bottom lip, shocking her with his gentleness.
When they’d last kissed, he’d tasted of too much brandy and smelled of sweet smoke. Tonight there was the merest hint of wine. His clean skin was scented with the rose petal soap she had made herself from the overgrown canes that tumbled over the outer wall. What should have been feminine had been converted into something else altogether—he’d captured the briar as well as the bud. She hoped to steady herself with a deep breath, but instead was swept away to the wild roses and the heat of last summer. Her skin beneath the pressure of his fingertips tingled as he drew her closer, his mouth skimming effortlessly over hers, brushing, savoring. There was nothing to do but meet his tongue and shiver as he tore her defenses down lick by wicked lick.
She felt herself sway, and reached for something to hold on to, although she was still sweetly trapped between his hands. She should touch him, if only to feel his smooth brown chest or span his narrow hips or tousle his curling dark hair. But there was no safe place to touch as he brought her to him, his velvet mouth angled expertly so that even the corners of her lips received attention.
Frederica had dreamed of kisses like this, though doubted their existence. How odd that her oldest friend and newest enemy was the man to prove her wrong. He lulled her into discomfiting comfort, banishing all thoughts with the steady skills of his tongue and teeth. His fingers slipped through her hair, loosening the braids. Her scalp tickled as he massaged her head and she felt a wash of heat down her neck. Her nightgown was suddenly too heavy, too warm, her arms useless at her sides, her knees weak. Sebastian seemed to know the exact moment of her capitulation, broke the kiss and lifted her from the floor.
“I’m going to carry you upstairs now.”
Frederica nodded. She could not have spoken if her life depended upon it. Her hand went to her swollen lips, still so sensitive that her own fingers sent shoots of longing through her. He held her as if she weighed nothing and climbed the circular stairs to the Pax 2. His room blazed with light—too much light. The tub was still centered in front of a roaring fire, the dropped towel on the carpet. The least he could have done before he came downstairs to slay her was wrap up in it. No mortal woman could withstand his male beauty for long. It had taken just one kiss—one consummate, carnal kiss—for Frederica to lose every shred of sanity.
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Lauren Dane Cynthia Eden Vivi Anna Sylvia Day Moira Rogers Mandy Roth Anya Bast Viv Arend Beth Williamson Elisabeth Naughton Michelle Pillow Jaci Burton Taige Crenshaw McKenna Jeffries Victoria Janssen Shelli Stevens Maggie Robinson Juliana Stone Sasha White Maura Anderson Shelley Munro Jody Wallace Eliza Gayle Kelly Maher
